


For Unto Us a Child is Born

by Phoenixflames12



Series: An Endless Night: Extended Scenes [5]
Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 15:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: January, 1937.Captain James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser paces the tiles of a hospital corridor, waiting for news of his wife and youngest child.





	For Unto Us a Child is Born

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to my longer World War 2 alternate universe story, 'An Endless Night.' You don't have to have read that first, but it may help!

_January 1937_

 

He paces the tiles of the hospital corridor, hands clasped firmly behind his back. Tries to still the nervous tremors of the stiff fingers, still painful ten years after the accident that had nearly cost him his right hand.

 

His heart is a bodhran, pounding against his chest, making it impossible to breathe as he fixes his gaze on the closed door that the nurse had shown him and then promptly left with a swish of a grey cape and the thud of her sensible, rubber soled shoes.

 

He had thanked her with a cursory bow and she had pursed her lips, grey eyes travelling dispassionately down the rumpled tunic of his battledress, the smudges of stubble that caress his chin. He had been at base when the message came, reiterating the importance of gun manoeuvres with the newest batch of raw recruits, some of them barely out of the school cadets.

 

The memory of it, a short, crisp telegram written on crumped yellow paper makes the sweat on the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably, soaking the collar of his tunic.

_‘Telegram for ye, Captain’, Lieutenant Jerry Mackenzie, newly transferred from the Army to the RAF, but who was still at barracks packing up the last of his things and signing off his paperwork had saluted him smartly just outside the mess room, the slanted brown eyes that betrayed their distant kinship dark with worry._

 

_And he had nodded and thanked Mackenzie with as much cordiality as he could muster, taking the crisp yellow envelope between suddenly nerveless, trembling fingers._

_**‘Jamie.  STOP**.’ It read and his breathing had hitched in his chest, the fearful ache in his stiff fingers matching the one that has gripped his heart. _

**_‘Claire in hospital in Inverness. STOP.  Faith and Brianna well. STOP. Will you come? STOP. Jenny. STOP.'_ **

_Jenny. He had exhaled a ragged, sobbing breath at the sight of his daughters’ names, at the sight of his sister’s name and thanks whatever God is out there for having her and Ian close by to keep an eye on the girls._

 

The rushed rumble in an army wagon down to the station, the two hour train to Inverness, the cab to the hospital, had all seemed to be a blur of noise and colour, his thoughts distorting and wandering into a terrible cloud of chaos.

_‘_ Lord that she may be safe’, he whispers to himself for the utmost time, the prayer burning across his tongue.

 

‘She and the child.’

 

 It had reverberated through the chugging echoes of the train, the whip of the rain on his face as he dashed through the station, hat flying, not caring, voice hoarse as he shouted for a cab.

 

And now standing here, in this echoing corridor, he crosses himself, stiff fingers reaching brushing past the hastily done knot of his tie, against the linen of his shirt and grips the beads of the rosary, the oak beads warm and firm against the blush of his skin.

 

He traces the beads without thinking, bowing his head to say the prayers that have been a comfort to him since childhood.

 

‘Captain Fraser?’

 

It is only when he hears his name being called a second time, the voice sounding kindly with a hint of a Northern Irish accent, does he look up.

 

Soft, concerned hazel eyes are watching him from the spillage of light coursing through the open door to Claire’s room.

 

‘Yes?’

 

The word feels rough and ragged, as if he has not spoken for months, not hours, his hands firmly returned behind his back.

 

‘Your wife, Captain. She’s…’ The girl, who can’t be much older than Flight Lieutenant Mackenzie, stops and gives him a tremulous smile, dimples catching at her cheeks, hazel eyes gleaming below her starched white cap.

 

‘You have a son, Captain. He’s healthy and bonny and got a rare set of lungs on him…’

 

He doesn’t need to hear the rest.

 

All the breath seems to be leaving his body as he moves towards the door that she is pushing open for him.

 

His wife, his Claire, his _Sorcha,_ is sitting up in bed, cradling a slowly quietening bundle to her chest, murmuring soft, sweet nothings that make his heart break with love.

 

_‘It’s all right little one. Mummy’s here, a chuisle. Oh, darling, I love you. How I love you.’_

 

The light from the window cascades onto her loose hair, setting it aflame with brightness and he swallows audibly.

 

Beside him, the nurse tentatively reaches for his hand, squeezing it lightly in reassurance.

 

‘It’s all right. Go on Captain, go and meet your son.’

 

_Son._

The word barely registers with him at first.

 

Barely registers as he gazes at his wife, her amber eyes shining with joyful tears, her cheeks flushed with exertion.

 

‘Jamie’, Claire murmurs wistfully from the bed, reaching out a hand to him. ‘Come here, love. Come and meet our son.’

 

‘Son’, he hears himself whisper tremulously and she nods, gazing down at the now quieter bundle in her arms. The light catches on the ring, his ring with its silver, interlace pattern that he remembers placing on her finger in the April sunlight of their wedding day. Remembers the way that she had beamed up at him from the back of the church, resplendent in his mother’s wedding dress that Jenny had dug out for her when she realised that Claire had no mother of her own.

 

Gently, he takes the hand, bending low to kiss the ring, revelling in the warmth of the skin beneath his lips.

 

‘He’s got your eyes, see?’ Claire’s voice is quivering with emotion as she gazes up at him, amber eyes brimming with tears.

 

_Our son._

And he can see, just.

 

The faint slant that catches at his own eyes is repeated here, the same tiny wings on his earlobe, a small freckled birthmark, so beautifully patterned against his son’s soft, new skin.

 

‘A boy, _mo nighean don,’_ his whisper is awed and he is unsure whether his voice is truly his own.

 

She nods, hiccupping a giggle, squeezing their clasped hands.

 

Their child, their youngest, their son rests peacefully between them for a moment, the silence broken when Claire murmurs, ‘would you like to hold him?’

 

_Hold him._

_Hold their son, the boy that they never thought would come, would never grace their existence._

He nods, fighting back the lump in his throat as he reaches for the delicate bundle of white cloth.

 

‘Braw lad’, he smiles, reaching to trace the line of his son’s jaw and the baby shifts in sleep, his heart melting all over again. It had felt the same with Faith, the same with Brianna, but somehow, this child, this miracle child, born after years of heartachingly slow waiting, is different. Fine wisps of copper coloured hair litter his son’s scalp, finer than butterfly wings and so soft that it makes him afraid to touch them.

 

‘ _Mo mac’,_ the words come to his tongue slowly, reverently, and Claire beams up at him.

 

‘ _Mo bhalaiach_ ,’ the word filled with the weight of his son cradled in his arms.

 

‘I’ve been thinking of what to name him,’ Claire murmurs a moment later, shifting along the cramped hospital bed to allow him to sit, one arm tucked around his waist, her head rested on his shoulder.

 

‘Have ye, then?’ He cannot help but smile.

 

He feels as if he will never stop smiling, that not even the growing unrest in Europe and the rumbles of war, will wipe away the joy that has ignited in his heart. His wife, his beautiful, fierce wife, his daughters and now his son are here; here and happy and safe.

‘William? After…’

 

She trails off, hazel eyes wide in question.

 

_William._

_William after his brother who had succumbed to smallpox at the age of eleven. William, Willie whom he had worshiped with his entire being._

_Aye._

_That was it._

_‘_ Aye’, he says quietly, not quite managing to choke back the lump in his throat.

 

Gazing down at the bundle, an angel in white, he considers the lad. If he was to have his hair and the Mackenzie slant to his eyes, he hoped that they would take after Claire’s.

 

That he would be able to look into the deep amber coloured eyes flecked with honey lights that now gaze up at him.

 

‘William,’ he whispers, holding her gaze and nodding.

 

‘Aye, _mo ghraidh._ William Alexander Beauchamp Fraser. That’s the one.’

 

They sit together for a long time afterwards, cradling the baby between them until the light began to fade and the time has come for Jamie to return to barracks, listening to the lightening patter of the rain on the window as it cleared into a cool, January evening.

 

He leaves with a soft kiss to the top of Willie’s head, pressing his lips again to Claire’s knuckles.

 

‘‘ _Tha gaol agam ort, William. Mo mac. Mo bhalaiach. Tha goal agam ort.’_

 

* * *

 

_**Fin**  _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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